Greater Good
by PatronSaintOfBEGA
Summary: Sociopaths have strange habits. Hiro and Garland just handle it the best way they can. Rated for general theme, review and I love you!


**Greater Good**

**(Strike Again)**

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_"Sweetness, sweetness, I was only joking when_

_I said I'd like to smash every tooth in your head_

_Sweetness, sweetness, I was only joking when_

_I said by rights you should be bludgeoned in your bed."_

_- The Smiths, "Bigmouth Strikes Again"_

---------

It was always a bad start when he came home and the motorcycle was in the driveway, but it was also a good end. Relatively speaking. Garland barrelled out of the car with his usual retinue of relief, anger and confusion, and went on the hunt.

He eventually found Hiro in one of the less-used sitting rooms, crouched by the end of a couch and trying to keep hold of two wrists that did not belong to him.

"Shh. Shh."

"Hiro."

"Hey, Garland. Shh, I said shh."

Garland moved forwards a few steps, jaw set. Hiro adjusted his grip fractionally. Brooklyn snickered and batted the man away, waving both arms at the ceiling like a dissipated marionette. En route to a chair, Garland caught hold of a passing hand. He scrutinised it, ignoring his teammate whining angrily; fingers, palms and wrists splotched with coagulated blood, what was probably scraps of skin under the nails. He let it go, and sat down heavily in a lounge chair opposite the couch.

"Hiro - "

"Hiro!"

"Shhh. Hssh."

The coach easily caught the released hand as it swung back to swipe at his face, and the other one was still wandering innocuously through thin air. He glanced in the direction of Garland.

"Yes?"

The aforementioned closed his eyes, brows raised.

"You didn't wake any of the others, did you?"

"Giles called me, but he's gone to bed. I said I'd be - no, shh, stop that - said I'd be okay."

"About what time?"

"One-twenty. We didn't call you, I thought you'd be on your way home already."

Garland nodded vaguely, re-tying his hair and checking the clock.

"I think I was. Thanks."

The man shrugged, his concentration elsewhere. The free hand had reached to find his; he obliged and took hold of it, rubbing the cold, dirty knuckles soothingly.

"Hssh, hssh. It's okay."

"Hiro. Hiro."

"What's the matter?"

"I want a peanut butter sandwich and, and lettuce."

"Well, you can have some lettuce in the morning, but no sandwich. You're allergic, peanuts make you throw up."

"Mm. Oh."

Hiro felt the hands twist away from him, as their owner - lying backwards along the little-used blue couch - attempted to do the same. He kept his hold, and tugged gently. The boy fell backwards again and stared at him upside-down, torn fingernails scratching at his wrists.

"Hiro let go."

"No, not now, love. Later. Sh."

"Did you find a - the - yet?"

The man shook his head slowly. Sudden movements were generally not a good plan.

"Not yet, we don't even know if there is one. We haven't found anything, actually, so it might've gone in a river, or something. Giles said he'll help me check tomorrow."

Garland nodded, leaned back into the slightly dusty cushions, and yawned. The early hours were very stale in a beige-painted sitting room that nobody ever used _anyway_, which was probably why they were in there, and for God's sake what had he done this time?

"Hiro let go. Let go!"

"I said not now, y - "

"Have to be sick let go!"

Hiro let go. He watched his charge - or possibly Garland's - stagger off the couch, to the bathroom door just outside.

"Tch..."

He quirked an eyebrow tiredly at the youngest Tzebult's resigned sigh.

"Problem?"

"Nope. No, situation normal. Rgh."

Hiro stood up, stretching his legs and back, and smirking unamusedly. It was past four already.

"He's only ever gone for two days at a time. Always comes back."

"Always comes back stoned, yes. God. Why's he _do_ this? I don't get it."

The coach chuckled.

"I don't think we're meant to. Destruction is creation, and so on? He's just bored."

Garland looked up incredulously, from resting his head in both hands; there was half-dried blood smudged up his index finger.

"And sociopathic! This's the worst installation art ever. I mean, strangest, or something. I try to make it interesting around here. I do everything, every - all the things I _can_, the others help too, you know but he still goes and, and, whatever."

"Comes back? It's fine, we'll find the body and get rid of it in the morning - "

"Sure. You want to go to bed?"

"No, I'm okay. You can go if you want. Hey."

Hiro turned slightly to put his arms around the late-teenaged body trying to cling on his sleeve. It promptly latched onto his formerly-clean lapel instead; somehow, Brooklyn was managing to get tacky, half-dry blood all over his jacket despite having apparently washed under the bathroom tap after throwing up.

"You feel better now, hmm? C'mon, let's go sit. This way - no, on the couch. Good boy, shhh. You want to lay down?"

Hiro sat himself at the end of the couch, pulling the other to lean against him comfortably. He ignored two dark-feathered limbs curling up towards the ceiling like sides of a crucible.

"S'alright. Go to bed if you want."

Garland shrugged, a little resentfully. It was getting light outside anyway. He yawned again.

"What kind of friend would I be? Chair's okay for now, I'll stay here."

"Gar go to bed."

The youngest Tzebult blinked; glazed teal eyes were looking at him accusingly. He issued a faint smile.

"It's okay, We're all comfortable, we're fine. Go to sleep, alright?"

The eyes moved away, their owner crossing both elbows over his face and emitting a jittery, helium-pitched giggle. Hiro frowned, and shifted a hand to rub the other's back gently until the noise stopped. Eventually the wings drooped, too, one splaying over the couch edge, and the man sighed quietly. He looked up; Garland was still awake, and watching him.

"...God, I couldn't do this all the time. I like going home."

The teen snorted, amused as far as he could be.

"S'easy, really, coach. It's just like having a kid. Or a - a sort of pretty, drunken animal that may go for your throat at any time. Easy."

Hiro leaned his head back into the couch cushions, grinning.

"I guess."

Garland smirked back. In the lull, the aftermath, things were as peaceful as a slack washing line. It'd been a fairly standard run, anyway; no police, and nothing near that one time, when he'd walked in to a very dead businessman waltzing around the kitchen to _Soda Stereo_, in a haze of purple static. None of that, this time, they just had to find and get rid of.. He paused, staring at his sleeping friend's face.

"I suppose," he ventured idly, "It's alright. I mean, so he doesn't get too bored."

The team coach, blinking and rubbing at his eyes with both hands, nodded.

"Yeah. These people die, mm. But, if they didn't, we might have a problem."

"So - it's kinda, for the greater good, right?"

Hiro lowered his hands, and glanced down at the congealing red prints decorating his jacket.

"Yeah, for the greater good."

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**NOTES:**

**Okay, wtf? You may well ask, feather-duster doesn't even know why this happened. Apparently, caffeine fuelled all-nighter plus psychotic giggly Brooklyn loitering around the place, is not a good combination? Who would've guessed?**

**Yes, there was blood. Yes, people are dead. We don't know who.**

**INTRODUCING: GILES! Let's have a warm welcome for the newest made-up, left-field, name-just-sounds-good, Tzebult/Siebalt/Garlandrelated sibling! WOO! (even though, he didn't actually appear...or speak...feh.)**

**Dixon, should you happen to read this - it's what happened after "Yet".**

**_Soda Stereo_ are THE Argentinian pop band. From the 80s. They're awful and so damn weird/funny. And in feather-duster's strange little world, folks, Brooklyn lives in Argentina and _likes_ that kind of thing. Also it's excellent for dancing corpses around to in other people's kitchens, ne?**

**Speaking of which, what did Garland ever do to deserve this? Gawd. Should be nicer to him in future, but that's what he gets for being way, way too responsible. Hiro, on the other hand, may be feeling some karma.**

**_Someone_ here should stop huffing the crack pipe. Who, precisely, is up for debate.**

**This fic is dedicated to the jar of organic peanut butter on feather-duster's desk. And the French coffee shop down by the station. And the Greater Good, of course.**

**Review and I love you - if not, well, we're still in need of a named corpse over here...**

**---------**

_P.S.:_

_"Oh, the devil will find work for idle hands to do_

_I stole and then I lied just because you asked me to_

_But now you know the truth about me_

_You won't see me anymore_

_Well, I'm still fond of you, aha ho_

_But no more apologies, no more apologies_

_I'm too tired, I'm so sick and tired_

_And I'm feeling very sick and ill today_

_But I'm still fond of you, aha ho"_

_- The Smiths, "What Difference Does It Make?"_


End file.
